


danger, thy name is

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, F/M, Pirate Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Princess Emma Swan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-02 22:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8686606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: There's whispers of spreading darkness, 28 years of quiet breaking - and she finds herself sharing an alley with him. The story may have started long ago, but it's ready for a new beginning. Whether they are is yet to be written.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i know i haven't written anything in a decade but this story hit me and wouldn't leave me alone until i sat down to write it. i hope you enjoy and forgive me my disappearance and lack of updates. Special thanks to @blondecrowns whose encouragement makes shit happen.

It’s been years since Emma’s taken part in the song and dance of dashing through the castle, stealthily slipping through whatever gate isn’t being patrolled at that moment, and evading all the guards searching the town. She’s grateful for its end, and the guards have made it more than obvious that they are, too.

Now especially, when she nods at them in a tacit agreement that they’ll meet at the usual place, and should she be more than ten minutes late, they’re free to sound the alarms and race to her (most likely unnecessary) rescue. They’re no doubt assuming it’s just another “princess’ flight of fancy,” entertaining the notion that only outside her privileged life of responsibility and duty is she free to be herself.

Now especially, when they would be utterly mistaken.

For any other day she can be Anna or Leia (or that one time she called herself the “Lady of the Night,” a title she is more than happy to never hear again.) Today, she can’t be anyone of the sort. She can’t leave behind her crown or toss aside her responsibilities for one carefree evening out of a week of endless work.

For those evenings felt a lot less carefree when the tavern was too loud for her aching head. “Anna” took herself outside, mug of ale ready to be thrown back only to catch the snatch of a whisper, a conversation carried by the cool wind -

_“Yeah, it’s in the south, isn’t it? Dark skies and endless fog.”_

_“People are going missing, I’ve heard. Whole villages up and emptied overnight.”_

_“Well, I’ll be catching a ship going as far North as I can. Sounds like magic down there, and I’ve no business with that. I’ll not pay that price.”_

Forget carefree, now Emma has care to tread quickly and as covertly as she can through the bustle of Market Day and the mayhem always brought on by the docking of the merchant ships from the northeast.

She isn’t long in her journey before the activity fades, the crowds lessening to small groups, pairs, and then a person slipping down a narrow street, eyes cast to the ground to attract less attention. Emma keeps her gaze direct except to shoot glances down the alleys she passes. She’s never been to this area of town, smart enough to know that she’s a hard figure to miss, a face easily remembered. But this visit is necessary - for what she’ll soon find out, if only for it to calm the worry in her gut.

As they’d set no exact time for the meeting, a clever scheme to avoid eavesdroppers and too-interested parties, she’s come in the daylight. Still, the sky isn’t as bright as it could be, storm clouds are growing heavier above, and a light fog slowly unfurling.

She’s almost to the meeting place, Emma’s certain. The docks are before her and just like her contact said, the screaming mermaid decorates the prow of a small ship moored there. She almost quickens her step, eager in the way she’s sure men walk to their deaths.

Only, a man approaches, stepping out of the fog and towards her. Head bowed, he doesn’t notice her, and she has no interest in him doing so. His beard is a wild bush of red, his black cap is pulled haphazardly over his head and he chuckles repeatedly; the sound conjures memories of brawls over dice, knives dug into wooden tables and a growled promises to cut their competitor for the offense.

An alley is just to her left and she slips within it. Pressing herself against the quiet building, Emma listens for the heavy sound of his boots to pass her by. Her long, dark cloak should be enough to pass her off as a mere shadow beneath the attached awnings if he even bothers to look her away.

It isn’t fear that drives her, but an unwillingness to deal with that hassle today (or any other day, but that’s often too much to ask for)

And fear doesn’t have her hand reaching for the sword sheathed at her side, either, but well, if she must deal with a hassle, better to just get it over with and face down the man she now realizes is watching her as he leans against the opposite building. A hint of a smile adorns his face, and he twirls a dark bag between his fingers. As the man Emma originally hid from passes by, her companion glances at him and nods, now turning an understanding look on her.

Emma merely grips her sword handle a little tighter and stares at him.

The understanding soon fades into intrigue, but he doesn’t give into her hostile stare, seemingly taking it as a challenge.

“I don’t suppose you’re looking for a dealer in fine goods,” he remarks casually, although the question isn’t casual in the slightest.

It’s telling, really, that she’s here, walking along the dark streets of darker purposes.

And it’s telling that he is as well, so she narrows her eyes and retorts, “Fine goods? Or stolen ones?”

He lifts a thick, dark brow in offense and says, “Come now. Do I look like the kind of untrustworthy character who would deal in such unsavory practices?”

She looks at him, starting at the pointed boots, drawing her gaze up the leather clad legs to the silver buckle (she couldn’t miss it with his hand clasped around it, the gems of his rings cutting color through the gray around them.) His vest is unclasped deeply enough to show more than a hint of dark hair, and his look isn’t complete without the heavy black leather coat and the smirk curling his lips.

He winks at her careful appraisal, and it almost makes her laugh because of the ridiculousness of his question - and the failed attempt at winking, which he must not even realize because he holds himself like he’s a gift of to the world and, at the moment, her in particular.

Unimpressed, she merely stares at him. Her silence makes him chuckle, roughly amused, and he says, “I see that you’re a bright lass.”

He pauses, surveying her in much the same way as she did him, calculating but not threatening, at least not in any way that Emma has time (or the interest) to explore. There’s a danger to him of the worst kind. It’s the one that hides behind smart remarks and wide, easy grins. It’s the bite of a lip, the dark of night falling all around you. It’s the one that makes you want to be dangerous, too.

His gaze once again falls on her face, and she’s caught by the softness in it before he smiles and says, “A little too bright for places such as this.” He scratches his chin and muses, “So if you’re not looking to deal in goods, then you must be looking to deal in information.”

He steps towards her, and she didn’t know her grip had loosened on her sword until she has to tighten her hold to draw the blade slightly free. Instead of making a move on her however, he merely motions towards her destination.

“You’ll find him in there. Lad likes to think that he’s some kind of king of the castle.”

He snorts and Emma follows his gaze to the roof of the building. She smiles at the turrets, or the facade of them, and thinks of her mother’s love of them. _Queen of the castle._

She shifts her gaze back to him as he makes himself comfortable against his wall again.

“I’d tell you to be careful, love, but -”

“I’m careful,” Emma cuts him off quickly because he’s looking at her like he wants to say something smart.

He grins, too much knowledge in the deep dimples of his cheeks, and says, “A pretty lie to be certain,” making it clear what he means by ‘pretty’ when he stares into her eyes. She finds the blues of his are deeper than the dimples in his cheeks, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.

Emma holds his gaze for a moment. It’s just long enough to make her disinterest clear to him, but it backfires. His grin widens, his hips jutting out just a tad that she has to pretend not to notice. Apparently, staring at him only turns her into a challenge that he’s more than willing to attempt.

She doesn’t give him a chance before she turns away from him to head to the building. Her grip doesn’t relax on her blade again, and she listens for the sound of footsteps following behind.

It’s as she always does when she’s at court and awaiting the next business of the day with this advisor or that diplomat, her harried father or her busy mother. It’s as she always does when she’s on her own and wishes to stay that way.

Emma’s always listening for footsteps leading her places she doesn’t wish to go.

But they don’t sound and - she bites at her lip in self-admonishment, and she tosses _that_ thought aside before it can take form.

She knocks at the darkened door, the agreed upon two slow knocks and then the quick three raps. It’s to announce herself, but suddenly she comprehends that of course her contact is a “lad,” because it’s a silly enough requirement to be set only by a kid.

In the moments that Emma waits for an answer to her knocking, comprehension dawns again as her mind reflects on the way the man waved her towards the building, a silver hook in place of a hand.

She swivels back around quickly but he’s disappeared from the alley to leave naught but the memory of him behind, and silly herself, perhaps more so than “the lad,” Emma stares at the spot he stood and thinks, _Danger, thy name is Captain Hook._

-

Whispers no longer carry on the night’s cool breeze. No, it’s carried in the fear of villagers from the midlands seeking the shelter and promise of protection that proximity to the castle brings. Whispers are no longer whispers, in fact. Emma would be all too happy to ignore it, in another life where nothing can ever hurt them, where happy endings are just that: happy, and full of the promise that the rise of the sun heralds a day brighter than the next.

It’s often now that she’s awake before dawn. It’s _worrying_ how used to it she’s become; how she wakes to pray that the reds, oranges, and whites in the sky are the sun breaking through the night and not the flames of the Evil Queen’s revenge.

The thought of that twinges a little deeper now, when her defeat isn’t the story that gives strength to the people, finds hope in the hopelessness, and cuts light through the darkness. Now it comes with a new tale, one that centers on her.

The story hangs heavy on Emma’s shoulders.

“So, what?” she feels at the tip of her tongue with every glance from those who know and those who guess, “So, what if I was prophesized to break some curse and save us all?”

It was never cast. Their happy ending was never lost, and Emma?

Emma’s not the Savior.

She’s just a princess, which is perhaps an understatement of her position because _just_ a princess would still be here, worrying about what the future will bring and steeling herself for a break in an almost idyllic life.

Uneasy, she paces her room, stopping only to look out the window and towards the sea that surrounds. Its waters look calm from here; she wonders if she were closer would they still retain that calm, or would they ripple and roar, waves rising and crashing?

There’s a metaphor in there, somewhere.

A knock at the door makes her pause. Emma finds (to the surprise of absolutely no one, if they were here to see) that she has to take a deep breath before she can answer it.

“The council -”

She nods and manages a smile. She’s glad they sent Roland because he’s strong in the face of fear. He’s laughed in the face of danger so many times that Emma’s stopped counting.

(That she’s been with him many of those times, having even drawn him into that danger, matters not.)

Roland’s brave through and through, and unlike most, he doesn’t let “Savior Emma” replace the Emma standing before him.

“Yeah, well, thought I should tell you before you were late. Again.”

Emma snorts, elbowing him lightly. “That was once. Eight years ago!”

“It was plenty memorable, though,” Roland points out.

She can’t argue with that, having raced to attend the meeting without changing out of the clothes she’d worn when she snuck out the hours before. It was already late enough for the guards to start combing the kingdom for her, so Emma hadn’t given it thought until she stepped within and the whole conversation paused.

Council meetings were never scheduled that late at night again. Her father made sure of that, and Emma can’t blame him. Honestly, the only people not mortified by that evening are the excessively dimpled man strolling beside her and Red. Emma can’t blame them either, though she’d rather not admit how hard she laughed after she finally escaped to the solitude of her locked room.

Roland leaves her at the doors with a pat on her head just to annoy her. She huffs in his direction - comforted enough by the familiar gesture to cross the floor like the path set before her is one she understands.

Seated across from her mother and father, she watches them for something, anything that will ease the weight on her shoulders, but heavy is the crown and heavier still is the gaze of Blue as she watches Emma.

“The masquerade ball,” Grumpy points out with a gruff growl. Emma is grateful for the distraction. “We have to cancel it, right? Can’t have that many people walking around with masks on their faces. She could just walk right in here and we’d be boom! Fireball! Deader than dead before she even unmasked herself.”

Emma looks around the table, catching Red’s eye-rolling.

“She’s too dramatic for that,” Red asserts. “Sneak attacks aren’t her thing. She likes to -” Red scoffs in disgust - “make an entrance. If she wants to hit the ball, we’ll all know it. Remember the wedding?”

“It was such a nice wedding,” Happy says dreamily.

Emma’s the only one who smiles. Coincidentally, she’s the only who wasn’t there.

Funny how that works out.

She drops the smile as the conversation regains focus. Her father quells the table with just a clearing of his throat before he says, “Red’s right. Regina was always about the theatrics. She’s more likely to blast open the doors to crow about her imminent victory before she is to actually do the smart thing and kill us quietly.”

“Smart thing?” her mother snaps, eyebrow raised in disbelief.

Her father wilts a bit, but argues, “It _would_ be.” Her mother continues to glare at him so he adds, sitting straight again, “But the best tactics for an assassination aside, we know what she wants. She wants our unhappiness. She wants us to suffer. She wants Snow’s heart. The Dark One protected us all those years ago but he’s gone, so the curse -”

Emma stiffens at that, waiting for the worst.

“Isn’t necessary. She’ll probably go back to her old methods, as we’ve been hearing already. All the reports are saying this. She may not need to hunt for us through the kingdom anymore, but she’s still willing to kill anyone she thinks is getting in the way of her revenge. Sadly, her twisted mind has decided that includes anyone within our kingdom.”

“That’s why we need to worry about protecting the people!” Grumpy says. With an emphatic nod and a slam of his hand to the table, he says, “Cancel the ball! Spend that time securing the castle instead!”

Her father sighs. “I have to agree. We’re only opening up ourselves to attack if we spend less than all our energy serving our people.”

“Serving our people?” her mother says, her gaze set on her father first before scanning the whole table. “A celebration would serve our people just as well. A night of festivity would help them forget their fear for a moment. They should have that.”

“But why should they forget their fear? Fear will put them to work,” Granny says.

“Yes, exactly! They’ll be better equipped to defend themselves if they aren’t thinking of something as frivolous as a ball.”

The argument goes on, but Emma doesn’t hear much at all, the back and forth making her feel like she has no part in the conversation. She should be grateful for that, to not be asked to decide this when she’s been asked for something she has no idea if she can even give, let alone whether she even has the choice in doing so.

Her gratitude withers when the hum of their voices allows her to better feel Blue’s eyes on her. She’s the one who drew Emma into her mother’s sitting room and announced that they needn’t look far for their chance at stopping the Evil Queen. Curse cast or not, Emma was still the Savior. It’s who she was born to be. Who she lives to be.

Honestly, whoever Emma ever thought she lived to be, it certainly isn’t the person Blue’s built in her head.

But it certainly isn’t this, either, a mute spectator in her own life.

“I agree with the Queen,” Emma snaps.

She hasn’t heard the last few minutes of conversation, but by the confused, surprised, and disapproving looks she receives, it’s obvious where the conversation had been leading.

Still, she doesn’t retreat. Years of learning to be strong and sure in herself, she lets her voice carry without an ounce of the uncertainty that plagues her even now.

“We can’t give in to fear. Of course that sounds like it makes more sense, let the fear guide our people into action, let it feed the building of walls and sharpening of swords. But fear paralyses, and it leaves walls abandoned and swords dropping from trembling hands.”

She pauses, watching as their expressions change. She doesn’t look at Blue, but she’s looking at Emma.

 _Fear_ , that must be what she’s feeling, too, but -

She thinks of the last masquerade they threw. Her mother had been so happy that Emma let her tie the awful feathered mask on her face. She left it on even when it made her sneeze so violently that her unfortunate dance partner stumbled into the couple beside him. He’d been so embarrassed that even when Emma offered him her hand, he made his apologies and slunk away. He’d left her on her own in the middle of the floor, but Emma had never smiled more. Red grabbed her by the hand moments later and she and Dorothy ruined the careful choreographing by twirling Emma in circles until she stumbled into Alexandria’s arms, passed off to a smiling Roland, and she couldn’t hear his voice over the laughter of the room.

Emma keeps that vision in her mind as she says, “Allowing fear to guide us would be defeat in and of itself. We can prepare for the worst, but that doesn’t mean we can’t embrace the best.”

She looks to her mother, who’s beaming (to no one’s surprise.) She doesn’t add to Emma’s words, but lets it sit. Emma almost falters in uncertainty, but she should never doubt her mother’s wisdom, because Grumpy grumbles, drawing attention.

“You might be right,” he says grudgingly.

Emma tries not to take it to heart. At least it isn’t like the time he scoffed at her ability to heft his axe. He was right, but _still_ , way to kill her dreams.

“Emma is right,” Red says. “Remember the wedding? It’s like Happy said. It was a _really_ nice wedding, and she can seek to ruin our happiness all she wants. We shouldn’t do her work for her.”

Her father turns to her mother, nodding. Emma still doesn’t understand it, how they can just look at each other and just _know_ , can speak without words between them. For years now, she hasn’t really given much thought to whether she’ll one day understand, but it aches a bit.

The prophecy said that only the Savior would be protected from the curse.

It sounds very lonely.

“We can prepare for the masquerade while we contact the generals and admirals. This will take some time. Although, knowing Regina, we have precious little time to prepare.”

“Maybe she’s gotten slow in her old age?” Red offers.

Dorothy shakes her head. “That’s a worse scenario. A white-haired mass murderer riding a broomstick because her legs have weakened from age?”

Dorothy shudders as Red wraps her arm around her. It’s a brief reprieve from the grave reality, but when she leaves the table, it has Emma looking forward to the masquerade without looking behind, sure that if she does, Blue will meet her gaze.

-

Her hands feel unsteady as she fixes the last of the pins in her hair. It’s the most important one of all, keeping her hair from looking carefully styled and not an unfortunate wreck. It’s kind of like how she’s supposed to be the one standing between their kingdom and destruction. It’s nice that she’s become better at recognizing metaphors. At least she’s improved in some way.

In other ways…

It started a few days ago, or maybe it started years before, a spark in her fingers, a hint of light here and there, and a current flowing ever constant. Sometimes rising but mostly resting beneath her skin, always present but unnoticeable like the inhale and exhale of her breath.

It’s rising now. If she could give a word to the feeling, “begging” would be an apt descriptor. It feels like it’s begging to be released, which might be a metaphor for her position, or just an innuendo she’s inflicted on herself.

Unfortunate wording aside, Emma feels it and for the first time, she thinks to explore it. She lifts her hands instinctively, watches herself in the mirror as her brow furrows and her mouth sets into a line before she drops her hands back to her lap and shakes her head.

It isn’t that she finds herself incapable of setting it free, but that she is uncertain whether she’s capable of facing what comes after.

A knock sounds at her door and steals away the contemplation. Before she can think to answer it, the doors swing open, and her mother steps inside.

Emma crosses her arms over her chest, giving her mother a look. “What was the point of knocking?”

“It wasn’t a request for entrance, Emma, just an announcement of one,” her mother explains with all the conviction of someone spouting bullshit.

Emma smiles as her mother steps beside her, joining her reflection in the mirror. It’s a familiar sight, since Emma was old enough to remember, dressing in her finest gown and standing beside her mother as they admired themselves. It’s silly and perhaps a little vain, but Emma still feels absolutely beautiful when her mother’s standing beside her.

“You’ve grown so much,” her mother comments.

Remembering the last time she said this, Emma asks, “Is this another hint that I should find a husband at this ball? You’re not subtle.”

Her mother scoffs at her and at her reflection. “A husband, a wife, I’d welcome either if -” Her exuberance fades, and worse, she sinks, exhaustion in her frame the way Emma’s never seen it. “I’d welcome anyone that made you happy.”

Her mother blinks rapidly and Emma ignores her reflection in the mirror to turn to the real Snow White, the sheen over her eyes starting a lump in Emma’s throat.

“I wanted you to be happy. I didn’t want this - the Evil Queen - Oh sweetie, I didn’t want you to live the way I lived, with fear in your heart and the weight of the world on your shoulders.” She looks as close to cursing as Emma’s ever seen her, a tremulous mix of anger and despair falling from her lips, “I wanted you to have the best of everything. I wanted your life to be _easy_.”

Emma reaches up and takes her mother’s face between her hands, softly rubbing her thumbs across her cheeks in a move that she’s been on the receiving end of enough times to know how deeply it comforts.

“Nothing is ever easy, is it?”

She blinks - thoughts faster than the opening of her eyes speaking of responsibility, of duty, of Saviors and Evil Queens, prophesied miracles, of villages emptied, and dark magic spreading. She thinks of her mother’s happiness hanging on by a thread, and opens her eyes. She can see it, the light in her mother’s expression fading like the approaching cut of the Fates’ scissors.

Something besides that current swells inside Emma, a fierce desire to never let that happen.

She smiles, certain of this - “It certainly wasn’t easy to get into this dress” - that she’d do anything to protect her mother’s smile.

Which she gifts Emma with, pulling back slightly to wipe at her eyes, and whine, “Putting on this makeup was a feat, and I’m ruining it.”

“Well, at least you look beautiful,” Emma offers.

Her mother pulls her hands away, and Emma nods in emphasis.

“Thank Merlin for small mercies,” she says.

Emma shakes her head - one life-saving feat of magic and her mother’s thanking him for _everything_. Given that, Emma can’t help herself, really. It’s too much for anyone to resist.

“Well, actually, I don’t think he’s going to be coming.”

She’s still laughing when her father comes to drag them both away. It’s only at his prompting that she remembers to grab the mask. She situates it on her face as she walks, quick steps because they’re late.

“You look like a Swan,” her father comments.

“That was the idea, I think,” Emma replies.

Her father pauses, and they all stop. He gives her a long considering look, and Emma’s not up to his hugs at the moment, as nice as they can be. Now that she’s actually walking, her comment about her dress is proving all too accurate. Even a careful hug might be enough to do her in.

His expression goes soft, beaming like her mother’s did earlier, _proud_ \- of what Emma doesn’t know.

“Huh. Well, it was a good idea.”

Snow hums in agreement. Her mother and father share a glance, quiet understanding.

“I thought so, too.”

-

Somehow or another, Red usually ends up getting Emma’s first dance. At this point, it should probably be a suitor - the time has long since passed when her first dance was given to her father, a fact he often laments not getting to take part in since “Red thinks Emma’s her daughter, Snow. Every time she sees Emma, it’s ‘My baby’ this and ‘Who’s my little princess?’” Emma’s pointed out that he probably wouldn’t have wanted her first dances anyway. She’s always had heavy feet and even as a child she was prone to injuring with a misstep. At least with her wolf strength, Red was never on the receiving end of it.

Dorothy steals Red soon enough, with a long, completely insincere apology to Emma.

The ball’s in full swing when they spin away from her, but she finds she’s not the only one without a partner. At first she isn’t sure who grabs her hand, but her partner smiles and those dimples give him away every single time.

“Roland, we’re banned from dancing together, remember?”

Roland stops and Emma plants her feet to stop from spinning too far out.

“Oh, _right_. We destroy _one_ glass window and suddenly we’re troublemakers who might cause a war!” He pulls her close after a moment, and smiles as he says, “I guess I should be grateful, right? I don’t think anyone else has ever received such a kind rejection from you.”

Her denial falls on deaf ears that move through the crowd and disappear. He leaves Emma to work her way to the relative emptiness of the ballroom edges. A cool wind passes over her. Her too warm skin seeks it out, leading her towards the open balcony. Two guards stand at the doorway, no doubt a sentry or two outside keeping careful watch on the sky, but their appearance doesn’t dissuade her from her path.

It’s her glance to the side that changes her trajectory.

With the serious threat of the Evil Queen around them, she should probably call out to one of the guards to do this for her. Instead, she marches up to him (as surreptitiously as she can manage because she doesn’t need their help, can handle this, thank you very much, and she doesn’t need the guards to cause a scene when people are already on edge as it is.)

She expects some kind of startling from the pirate when she taps him by the elbow, pulling him slightly out of the fray, but he’s smooth. Too much so, flashing her a brilliant smile beneath his barely there black mask.

“Can I be of assistance, love?”

Emma realizes that he can’t see much of her face beneath her own overlarge mask so he can’t see her brow furrowing or her nose wrinkling. She eases a smile onto her face, and affects her best imitation of Alexandria, her only reference for such tactics. Emma has always stood by the straightforward approach; to act demure and unaffected when she’s all too affected is just a waste of time.

“Oh, I’m so bad at this. I was probably supposed to -” She presses her free hand to her forehead, shaking her head at herself. When she lifts her head again, his expression is easily accommodating. She didn’t think her imitation was _that_ good, and it worries her a little that she just might be that awkward.

(Is she that awkward?)

She shakes the thought away and smiles at Hook.

“Would you like to dance with me?” she asks, intentionally breathless.

Intent goes both ways, for he grins, his eyes roving over her lips, the only visible part of her face besides her eyes, and it takes a long moment for him to halt the further descent of his gaze that’s caressing her cleavage with a look (that she almost feels, if she’s being honest.) He returns to staring at her enough that, in this light, she can better see just how very blue his eyes are, a shade that she can’t pin with a name -

He grins and says, “To a lass as beautiful as you? You needn’t have asked.” He leans towards her, space between them lessening to a mere few inches when he says, “I’ll go anywhere you want me to, love.”

She blinks at him, trying to comprehend just how he thought he was going to blend in. With his considerable expanse of exposed skin - like, she’s sincerely surprised that no one’s approached him already with that much collarbone showing; if not a suspicious ball-goer, then a flirty one with pawing hands.

Emma is aware that Hook’s appearance can mean more than a reckless pirate trying to have a taste of the royal jewels.

(That thought halts her, and no doubt will haunt her, the unfortunate innuendo earlier no competition for this one. As it reddens her cheeks, she’s glad that her mask hides that color from him. He certainly doesn’t need a boost to his already considerable ego.)

 _Anyway,_ she’s also aware that this could be a harbinger of doom - _danger, thy name is Captain Hook_ , yes, she’s been through that before, and yet she wants to be sure.

She focuses on that purpose as he takes her hand and leads her towards the dance floor. The previous song’s playing the last of its notes, so they’ve timed the perfect entrance for - she listens to the new notes and groans - the waltz that Emma hates the most.

Emma’s worry for him fades as quickly as it comes. It’s more than he deserves anyway, to just to get off with Emma injuring him with her missteps. That is, of course, depending on why he’s made an appearance here.

“Nervous, love?”

How Hook can read her without seeing her face...is easy to ascertain when she realizes her palm is trembling in his. She also notes that he’s using his good hand to guide her. It’s a clever way to keep his identity secret while playing the ball-goer.

If only he’d put more effort into other aspects of his appearance.

Even in dress as rich, royal and perfected for his form as the tan number he wears is, Hook’s too wild for this party, beard too thick, hair too mussed and that deep neckline - it’s too much.  If he’d chosen one of the other balls, the rakish look wouldn’t be a problem.

(He could’ve chosen another ball, but he’s _here_.)

She realizes as he starts to lead her that she never answered his question, and has been staring at him the entire time instead.

Hook’s staring at her, too, but even with the amusement dancing in his eyes, she doesn’t feel the object of his jest.

“I am nervous,” Emma says. She bites her lip as the dance calls for them to draw closer. Quiet and wobbly-voiced, she continues like she’s admitting to the _worst_ of sins, “I was just supposed to be here to help my lady, and I feel a fool even behind this mask, pretending at someone I’m not.”

Hook’s voice is silky, a seduction even in his curiosity as he asks, “And who are you, exactly?”

She gives it a moment before she giggles (Alexandria would giggle, definitely), and asks, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He spins her out and she tries to remember the steps she’s supposed to take now. When Emma catches his gaze, he gives her a nod of genuine encouragement and she’s so taken off guard that she finishes it unthinkingly.

She doesn’t miss a step.

Hook sighs. “I would _love_ to know, but I believe that would be missing the point of this evening.”

Emma leans in - she supposes it isn’t careful, but if she’s playing the enamored lady’s maid, she can have some leeway.

“Oh! Are you pretending, too?” she asks.

“You don’t think I’m normally this captivating?”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Emma agrees. She licks at her lip nervously and he follows the motion, distracted enough for his expression to be unguarded when she says, “But how did you come to be here?”

She doesn’t miss the flash of discomfort and how he slips his mask quickly back into place to tease, “I strolled right in.”

“You’re evading the question...oh, I’m beginning to believe that you _are_ as rakish as you appear.”

Hook waggles his brows and says, “‘Scoundrel’ some might say.”

“Me,” Emma agrees.

“You? That hurts, love.”

He clutches at his chest with his hand - and she wonders where he’s stashed his hook, whether he’s had a hand made just for sneaking into balls, or sneaking other places -

“Truly? Allow me to soothe it.”

She touches her fingers to Hook’s cheek with her own free hand. He’s warm - of course, he is, he’s a living, breathing person - but it’s the warmth of his expression that is so unexpected.

Hook, she realizes, is leaning into her touch.

“Why did you come here?” Emma whispers.

The smile he gives is tired - sad and not nearly as bright as the ones he’s been flashing her the whole dance. It’s the first smile that feels real.

It’s the first one that she _feels_ , spreading within like a warm, flowing current. His gaze catches hers and she almost understands, revelation within his eyes and she can just see it -

Hook blinks, his reply cheeky, the press of his skin to her hand easing.

“To see a pretty lass, of course.”

She draws her hand back, her fingertips cold the moment they leave him. Cold, she feels it in his words. They ring true, but his smile did, too. It’s a quandary, for certain.

Emma wants to know what it means, desperately. She needs to.

But the silence is growing around her. The dance is over and she can’t recall finishing the steps. She has a thought to the dictations of propriety, that she find another partner or abandon the dance floor entirely. She combs her possible actions - how to make him stay without drawing attention, or Merlin forbid, making her parents think that she’s finally found herself a partner (although, the thought of that woefully inaccurate assumption makes her smile.)

She catches herself in the pull of a smile, but not before she also catches his returning smile as he lifts her hand again, this time to press a kiss to her knuckles. His lips linger, her skin tingling when he finally draws back.

“Thank you for the dance, love. I’ve truly never had a more fitting partner. Neither have I had one as delightful and beautiful as you. Alas, I have an obligation that takes me elsewhere.” He pauses, considering; she sees thoughts flash in his eyes, uncertainty before he breathes out, “Perhaps you’ll save me a dance.”

“Perhaps,” she replies unthinkingly.

In the seconds between his small bow and his turning to leave, Emma finally latches onto what she should do - follow Hook, of course, take him to some dark corner and tear the mask from his face, demand that he separate the truth from the lie, the truth from the truth.

She doesn’t manage one step before she’s taken by the elbow.

“I apologize Emma, but may I have this next dance?” Graham says.

He’s already taking her hand and following the steps, a slower song that brings them closer together before she can protest, and then when he leans in and speaks, she no longer needs to.

Hook is gone, whatever jewels he was able to pilfer no doubt gone with him, and she can’t give thought to that.

Dramatic is too weak a word for what Graham describes with solemn words and barely caged anger. A body delivered to the castle, one of their spies lying frozen in death until he rose from his coffin, opened his mouth, and spoke.

“The only happy ending will be my own.”

-

There are no words to reassure, and not a thing can be said to break reality.

28 years would’ve been a long time to wait for Emma to save them, but 28 years was but a minor pause in Regina’s plans. Apparently the Queen is more devious than they gave her credit for because Emma will be 29 in a month, the prophecy unfulfilled. Blue can call her the Savior all she wants, but the words are meaningless.

For how can she possibly break a curse that no longer has any rules?

She paces her room, finally ending up on the balcony, waiting for the sun to rise. Her hands grip the railing. Her grasp is so tight that her knuckles turn white -

 _The Savior_.

The sun rises then. Emma blinks hard at its sudden blinding light. Beneath her hands, the railing falls away, leaves her grasping ashes instead. She opens her eyes and she’s holding the sunlight in her hands.

She falls back at the sight. Utterly mistaken. It wasn’t a current, it was the calm of the sea, ripples turning to waves, and now they’re crashing, crashing down.

In a room with no windows, Emma misses the pinks, oranges, and yellows spreading across the sky, but Blue leads her as she makes the sun rise again.

-

She takes the brunt of the force of his swing despite a successful parry. It's successful in that he doesn’t take her head off and she’s able to stumble back fast enough to avoid the other black knight, who she thought she knocked out.

Obviously, she was mistaken and not for the first time this night. She thought she’d outrun them. Assumed that a quiet birthday, passed nearly two weeks ago, meant they could take their guard down for the short time it’d take for her to consult with Merlin and return home.

The time wasn’t short enough for they didn't even make it to him before a scout met her party with news of an attack. Now time’s passing faster with every moment she spends entertaining these knights’ attempts on her life. She can’t get away from one fast enough to risk dropping her sword and ending this fight with a blast of white hot magic. Restless, it burns beneath her skin and she’s already sweating enough as it is, why can’t it feel like a cold flame or something less akin to the sun of Agrabah?

Why can’t she catch a break?

A clash of swords behind her confuses. She leads the two knights before her to the side so catching a glimpse of the activity behind her won’t result in a blow.

She groans at the sight, unable to stop the sound. This isn’t the break she was asking for.

Yet, Hook is there all the same, doing a surprisingly good job at assisting her. She works the two in front of her while he disperses the rest of the squad. She still hasn’t managed a proper hit when a body presses at her back. The two left circle Emma and Hook, a pointless show of strength - like are they truly thinking that being the last two standing reflects on their swordsmanship and not the luck of having caught her unawares?

To Hook, Emma says, “I can handle them.”

“Well, I could see that, but having an extra hand didn’t hurt.”

She hears the laughter in his voice, can imagine him wiggling his fingers - though, he probably isn’t considering he needs to have his hand on his sword. But he wants to. He definitely wants to.

Exasperated (and maybe a tiny bit amused in spite of everything) at that, Emma says, “Seriously? Hand jokes?”

Hook chuckles, and in a simultaneous move, they draw away from each other. Emma dispatches of her knight quickly, the surge of energy brought on by Hook’s appearance slinking away to the sounds of crossing blades, a gurgled shout, and the dull thud of a body hitting ground.

She turns to him, watching as he does his best to clear the blood from his sword on the trampled grass. She follows his lead for Emma doesn’t need her sword to stick to her sheathe. She’s going to need it again before this night is through, and it’ll rust faster if she doesn’t take the time for this necessary care. It was a gift from her father. His sword. She doesn’t want to lose it. It could be a family heirloom someday, maybe.

The sheathing of his sword draws her head up from her cleaning and kills the ramble of her train of thought. She straightens to weary muscles protesting the movement. She ignores it; it can be dealt with later.

After.

The shadows of the trees shroud Hook’s face until he steps forward and into the moonlight. Emma catches his eyes before she approaches. She near draws her sword again at the crack of branches; a horse whinnies just behind the shadow of the trees, and Hook looks towards it.

“Show’s over, Blossom, no need to be afraid.”

The horse comes to a stop besides him, apparently soothed by his voice - perhaps unable to be afraid when he sounds so ridiculous saying its name. Emma wishes she could say the same. She (selfishly) wants to feel soothed, but she’s still breathless, quick inhales and exhales despite having already caught her breath from the skirmish.

Still, Emma doesn’t falter in her steps. She doesn’t have the option to.

“Come on,” she says.

His horse retreats some steps, her nose slipping from underneath his hand. Hook’s bewilderment quickly shifts into disbelief, his eyebrow lifting in a familiar, well-practiced (or perhaps simply instinctive) motion.

“Come again, love?”

“We have to go stop the Evil Queen,” she says because “we have to save my family” is the worst scenario and she's still holding out for a miracle that isn’t her. Emma eases around him to press a hand to the coat of his nervous steed. She looks into the horse’s eyes, pleading for understanding though she’s never possessed her mother’s affinity for speaking to animals. Maybe she’ll sit down with her, give it another try. After.

Hook huffs behind her.

“So, wait? I’m assisting you now? Because I actually have a prior engagement and -”

She swivels around, hands on her hips. “ _Seriously_?”

He looks chagrined, but it’s an empty expression. No commitment. No investment.

But he’s the one who stepped into her fight.

But -

“You were so eager to help a minute ago!”

Hook examines her, like he can see more in the dark than a blur of her expression. Emma tries to will everything away, because she’s sure that he can see how desperately she needs him to be more than a passing figure in her life right now. Instead, she just ends up biting the inside of her cheek. The pain spikes sharply and she winces, a stupid amount of wetness behind her eyes for such a tiny wound.

He steps around her to climb atop Blossom, and Emma contemplates how she’ll get to the castle when she set her horse off down the road as the queen’s men sprang their ambush. It’s a kindness she should regret now, but there’s no guarantee he would have been left unharmed and she would rather he live.

She’d rather they all live.

Hook’s horse gives off an uneasy whinny, treading forward a few steps. Blossom stops just beside her, and Emma looks up, determined not to let his abandonment shake her. She keeps her head held high, waiting for his goodbye.

Hook sighs, rubs at his chin, and says, “Alright, Swan. Let’s go now.”

He offers her his hand, and Emma takes it, shaken by his decision to stay. Together, they settle her behind him. She wraps her arms around him, and he sets Blossom into a sprint down the road. Her thoughts are too occupied with worry - her kingdom, her parents, wasted time and time wasting - to give more than a passing question to his address. But still she asks it: had he known all along that she and the woman he danced with were one and the same? Does he know who she really is?

Hook speeds up, so the circle of her arms tightens until her face is almost pressed into the cool leather of his coat. It’s only when he slows that she relaxes her bone-crushing grip. Smoke pricks her nose, and she twists around him to follow his vision.

She doesn’t have a moment to choke at the mass of bodies she can just make out. She scans the shadows around them for signs of life, malevolent or otherwise.

A shout reveals a survivor, but there could be more, so Emma prepares herself to drop down. There’s a window of opportunity she didn’t have before, and she won’t waste it.

The voice shouts again, clearer now - and with that newfound clarity, Emma urges Hook towards the source as a familiar figure bursts into view.

“Emma!”

Hook draws Blossom up beside Grumpy, but Blossom takes the initiative to step back when Grumpy waves his axe threateningly.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Grumpy asks.

Translation: Hook might be out of the reach of an axe swing, but that complication is easily dealt with.

From here, Emma can see the castle, and she looks towards it. The answer to Grumpy’s question can be answered when she has a better handle on said answer. After.

Just off the road, Queenstown burns, but the rising smoke doesn’t obscure the translucent dome of purple encasing her home. Her gaze is drawn back once more when the rest of the dwarves barrel into view, Red and Dorothy bringing up the rear.

Red pushes to the front to stand beside Grumpy, who’s taken Emma’s lack of response to mean the absolute worst.

“Why is he with you? He’s Captain Hook! He’s a pirate! Emma!”

Hook’s snort cuts Grumpy’s tirade short, which might’ve cut short his life for he says, “Is that really what matters at the moment, mate?”

Grumpy draws his axe back for a throw, and Emma snaps.

“Tell me the situation.”

Grumpy drops his axe down and a heavy weariness settles in his shoulders. Pointing towards the castle, he reports, “The Evil Queen put up some kind of magical barrier. We can’t get past. It just forces us back when we try. Snow and Charming are in there, stayed behind when the scouts announced the storm blowing in to divert the Evil Queen’s attentions from Queenstown.”

Emma takes this information in and, first and foremost, she considers the barrier. Or rather she considers her own strength, no clear answer to the question of whether it will be enough.

The current underneath her skin is just within reach, but her hand trembles. She presses it to Hook’s side to hold it steady.

“I can,” she says. Her words go unquestioned, conviction necessary for all of them right now. Emma scans the faces of her family, committing it to memory for the high regard in their expressions isn’t something she sees every day. She’ll want to savor it. After, of course.

“Go help who you can. I’m going to get my parents,” she instructs.

The dwarves spring into action, into the trees and down the path leading them towards the town. Red reaches up, placing her hand atop Emma’s. Red’s fingers curl tight and probably would’ve been entangled with hers if Emma wasn’t gripping Hook so tight. She can’t - _won't_ let him go lest she let go.

Held together by the solid weight beneath her hand.

Breaking her surprising quiet, Red commands, “Stay safe.”

“Always,” Emma replies.

Red’s hand lingers on hers, her eyes sad in acknowledgement. They both know Emma’s lying. They both _know_.

The worst is yet to come.

Red pins Hook with her next look. With a different kind of command in her voice, daring him to argue and turn her bark into bite, she says, “You’re going with her.”

“As if I have a choice,” he replies.

Emma can usually hear the flicker of humor in his words, but now she only hears her own soft exhale. Her hand trembles again not with the question of herself but with the question of _him_.

If she lets Hook go, gives into the unexpected desire to press her fingers to his cheek, she’s certain he’d lean into the touch.

“Head west,” Emma tells him, grounding her fingers in his side again. “There’s a passage there. It’s meant to be a secret escape route. It’s hard to find, but I’ll point you to it.”

“I know where it is,” Hook says.

With that said, he gallops forward at a swifter speed. Emma presses her face into his coat again and steadies her breaths.

A part of her wants to have been someone who could face this with the panic of the unknown. It wishes she could be collateral damage, an innocent bystander in this plot. It’s a small part of her. She can forgive herself that, the whisper of a wish to be a part of a different story. A tale in which she didn’t have to carry the hopes of so many, a burden that neither lessens or can compare to the terror of being the hero in a story without a guaranteed happy ending.

Heroes don’t always win.

Hook sighs, something she might not have heard had she not been so closely pressed to him. Perhaps it goes both ways, her thoughts loud enough to hear in the tightening hold of her arms.

As it is, she lifts her head, enough that her, “Are you alright?” can be heard above the rush of the wind.

In an echo of his response to Grumpy, and yet not at all the same, Hook answers, “Is that really what matters at the moment?”

She wants to say “Yes.” Emma wants to linger in the fantasy that’s taken her every time she’s seen him - chance encounters, and perhaps there could be _a_ chance - but in this moment, she can’t afford it. No matter how much she might want to.

She quells the wishes, the fantasy, and the impossible dreams.

Emma is who she is, and who only she can be.

“Killian Jones,” he announces.

“What -”

Hook chuckles dryly, and explains, “Given our current predicament, rushing headlong into danger as we are, I suppose that you should know my name if I die. Was right rude of me not to make a proper introduction that first meeting when I do so pride myself on being a gentleman.”

Emma’s lips upturns in what could’ve been a smile. He’s a gentleman. Of course.

“You’re not going to die, alright? No one is dying,” she counters after a beat.

She presses her face into his neck this time, her nose almost brushing his skin.

“When you say it like that, I actually believe it.”

She lingers there in the moment where the passing time doesn’t matter and she can just inhale against him, let his words sink under her skin, and settle within her.

When he says it like that, she actually believes it, too.

In the quiet that follows, Emma tries to attach _Killian Jones_ to him, but she doesn’t know Killian Jones; she knows Hook so she knows exactly who she needs.

A swift sprint later, Hook draws to a halt at the start of the purple barrier. Up close, Emma can see the state of the castle. It surprises her, how calm and quiet it looks from the outside.

Emma dismounts first and starts to walk towards the barrier. She hears him land behind her, a whispered word to the horse, and hooves galloping away. Like her, he too thinks it best to send his horse out of danger.

He understands her, or she understands him. Either way it begs more questions than answers, which she’ll have to search herself to find.

After.

Emma reaches out to brush her hand against the barrier and it pushes her back like a punch to the gut, feet digging trenches in the ground until Hook stops her backwards trajectory with an oomph of pain. She takes a moment to gather the air back into her lungs. The pain dulls, but it still feels like she’s been through a particularly trying training exercise.

He’s still pressed behind her, and when he gently settles her back on her own two feet, she turns to him, checking for serious injury.

Hook tenses when she touches him, her concern something that scares him. Evading her unasked question, he nods towards the castle and says, “Time’s ticking, love.”

With a determined energy, she approaches the barrier again. Dipping down into the current, she seeks out her magic, finds it there and grips it tight before letting it go, white blinding against the purple until it shatters in a flash of gold, dark and deepening purple flecks floating away.

Emma faces the hidden passage, pressing the opening pattern of loose stones only to find those stones are hard and unyielding. Distraught and angry - so much so that all she can see is the obstacle, and she has to be the hammer to break through and - Emma moves to slam her hand against the wall.

Before it can collide, Hook wrenches her hand back and eases the fight from her muscles. Gently, he lowers her hand to her side. With his hook, he reaches forward and pushes against a series of different stones that make the wall rumble and give way.

“How did -” He reaches up to scratch behind his ear, and she just shakes her head because that looks like the start of a long conversation she can’t have now. After is better suited for that telling. “They must’ve improved the security because of the Evil Queen. You snuck into the masquerade through here, right?”

Hook murmurs, “Aye, something like that.” He holds her back when she steps towards the dark passage. She lifts her brow in question, so he says, “They didn’t just improve the security on the outside. Stay behind me, Swan, some of these triggers are more volatile than others. We might have some unwanted blowback and we can’t have you damaging such beauty as yours. Now _that_ would be a tragedy.”

She nods, grateful for the attempted levity - and the sincere compliment because vanity at a time like this is obviously what she should be indulging in. Absolutely.

Emma still follows closely behind, almost kicking at his heels. At this distance, his warnings mean naught; she’d be as caught in any triggered trap as him.

The stone entrance seals behind them a few paces in. With the light snuffed, Emma reaches out in the darkness until her hand finds Hook. His solid form keeps her steady, and together they move through the dark.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma_

Scrawled in lines and lines of dark ink, in curving, almost perfectly copied letters on parchment as untouched by time as the cell is decayed. It’s a name that means nothing to Killian, and what could it have possibly meant to the crocodile? From the intelligence he’s gathered since setting down in this new world (the same as the old, really, they’d just emblazoned a new name on it and called it progress), this cell was created to hold the Dark One. However, it was emptied long ago, and after that, it could’ve held any number of men, bewitched by a name that held captive their pen.

He crushes the parchment in his hand and launches it against the wall, yet finds no satisfaction in the ruining of that blighted name. His anger goes unabated, his frustration only escalated, and his yearning to see the crocodile undone is as resolute as ever.

Satisfaction is forever distant. Madness - perhaps the same bound in the discarded parchment - is never out of reach. It is a shadow that follows his steps wherever he treads. Pan himself cannot do a better job of it. Killian assumes that’s why that demon hasn’t bothered to track him down. He may escape the darkness of Neverland, but he can’t escape the darkness within.

He doesn’t even make the attempt. 

He soon finds that years in Neverland, with nary a ship to even consider pillaging, hasn’t dulled his blade. So, he fills his pockets with treasures to pass the time, where each day stretches into the eternity he thought he escaped. Each stolen coin and pilfered gem grows more lackluster, and still he takes more. His coffers might not ever go without, but it’s a lifeless existence for a life he still cannot avenge.

News of the Dark One is few and far between, and said news are no more than scraps: _He hasn’t been seen in years. Used to haunt Misthaven making deals - for a steep price. Captured by the Prince and Princess years ago, before they were King and Queen and then -_

Who knows?

Killian comes up empty on the location of the Dark One, so he takes one more ship, spends one more coin, drinks and fucks himself into exhaustion but sleep evades him. The emptiness the crocodile left within spreads, a slow poison in his veins, but he can’t feel it.

Mostly, he doesn’t feel anything at all, his hatred and desire for revenge the natural state of his being now. It isn’t a feeling, it is simply who he is.

He has no desire to be anything else.

When he’s caught in the storm that has the lesser ship - a frigate of the pursuing navy from a land whose merchants he’d attacked a few too many times - crashing into wreckage at the bottom of the sea, it is more of an annoyance than a serious danger. They moor close to the shore of the island they’re swept to, and with a few trustworthy crewmembers - the ones who have seen the skill of his blade and are content enough in their lives to not risk its sharp point - Killian sets out in search of salvageable material. They might need it, once the fog and rain fades and he can get a proper appraisal of the Jolly’s condition.

They spread out but only he treks past the dark tree line and into the center of the island. Before him rises a castle more akin to a lair, a claw of dark, glimmering spires reaching towards the sky as if to wrench its stars where they hang and extinguish their light.

Magic has a peculiar feeling to it, and dark magic burns. It’s an ache in his temples, needles pricking his skin and something else he cannot put a name to and makes no endeavors to do so; it’s only important as a way to assess the danger he’s walked into.

He hears the telltale rustle of skirts behind him. Turning, he faces an older woman with dark brown hair that doesn’t match the wrinkles in her skin, almost imperceptible beneath the thick makeup.

By the sharp appraisal in her gaze, she’s fighting more than age. Her lips curl up in a satisfied smile, and he knows then that she wants to bring him into her battle.

“Have you come for a visit…” - she looks him over, voice sultrier when she drawls, “Captain Hook?”

He grins, curious but on guard.

“So you’ve heard of me?”

 “Only stories that I see haven’t done you justice.”

She steps closer to him, right into his space, and places her hand on his chest, nails slowly raking his skin. She hums, “Not at all.” Killian allows the invasive touch, but he doesn’t indulge in it. It isn’t her age that he opposes, but the taint of dark magic strengthened with her appearance, and he suspects that he’s only here because she meant for him to be.

“Stories,” she continues. She retreats, a theatrical sway in her step. Casually, she says, “Speaking of them, I _hear_ you’ve been looking for information about the Dark One.”

Killian stiffens - sharp radiations up his spine, and he’s aware again; she wants something, but what she wants might not be solely of her own desire. Killian would think Rumplestiltskin would prefer to deal with him on his own, but even as the Dark One he was a coward. He wouldn’t be surprised if the crocodile was hiding behind this woman, who he can finally put a name to. The Dark One made many deals and temporary alliances, but the longest was with the Evil Queen; it fits, truly, the lair, the over the top ensemble of dark purple and black, and the sneer on her lip.

Seems a tad forced, but who is he to judge her image?

She could be wearing the Crocodile’s visage; this is much preferred.

The bitter humor draws out his smirk, and he replies, “Aye. You’re offering to give me that information, I take it.” She starts to open her mouth, and he cuts her off, “For a price of course. What is it?”

His bluntness makes her expression flicker, a frown of disappointment. She affixes an answering smirk on her face and says, “Those stories truly don’t give you credit. You don’t seem a brutish lout at all.”

“No, just a simple pirate…” He pauses to take full view of her. With a flourishing bow, he says, “Your Majesty.”

She stiffens - perhaps he should’ve pretended the brutish lout, it could have been an advantage, a card to play later, but for the look on her face, it’s worth it. He knows now what she looks like when she’s uncertain. If he’s to enter an alliance with her, it’s advantageous to know what she looks like when she’s gathering her wits. Catching her off guard can be more revealing than her words.

“Respectful, as well. Oh, I just might have to keep you,” she says.

She closes the distance between them again, smoothing her hand down his chest, and sighs - “But alas, what I need from you will require distance.”

“What do you need?” Killian asks with narrowed eyes.

The Queen stares back at him. After a beat, she pats his chest, and says, “Where are my manners? I haven’t even offered you tea.”

“I prefer” - the world around him spins, and comes to a stop within a fire lit sitting room - “rum.”

“I need you sober,” she says sharply.

He supposes now that he’s revealed he knows her title, she sees no reason not to use the authority behind it. A fury he hasn’t felt in a long time rears its head. He grits his teeth. All royals are the same. New world, same as the old.

“You still haven’t told me for what?” Killian replies shortly.

She snaps her fingers and a vial appears in her hand. “It’s simple, really. There’s a river at the southernmost end of Misthaven. It’s a strange river, the sea flowing into it rather that it flowing into the sea. I want you to empty this into the water.”

“A simple task,” Killian agrees. “A lady such as yourself could accomplish this with ease.”

“I could,” she says - a lie by the tension in her words; perhaps she once could, but she can’t now. “However, such a task is better accomplished by your hands.”

“For what I’m giving you, it’s more than worth any trouble.”

Killian quirks a brow. “Just what are you giving me?”

“The Dark One, of course.”

Killian takes the vial out of her hand, shakes it a bit to watch the dark shadows within swirl. They press to the glass prison, trying to escape.

He slips it into his pocket.

“Just what is this going to do?” he asks, curious.

“Give me what I’ve wanted for a long time” - the grin spreads wide across her face, manic, _mad_ \- “Revenge.”

He lifts one corner of his mouth into a semblance of a smile.

“Then, allow me to be on my way.”

That they’re mirrors of each other, both looking to see their enemy laid waste, doesn’t foster trust in him, and no doubt in her as well. Still, it gives him a certainty in their shared cause. He has no doubt that she’s keeping track of him, but he has made a fortune on hiding away from prying eyes - he seeks the nature of the vial in his grasp.

He’s surprised to find that it’s only fog.

Suspicion follows after because dark fog can only be the start of a deeper plan. This simple task hides a complexity that he isn’t privy to. If he’s going to get the location of the Dark One, he’ll need to be.

His brief stop at the Queenstown docks on his journey back to the Queen is unplanned. A restocking becomes necessary when spoil spreads through their food stocks, and the men are clearly restless. They’ve followed him a long time, but finally back in a land of luxury - and lacking mermaids eager to drag them beneath the sea - is weakening the control he’s held over them for centuries.

Before his revenge is had, he’ll have many a deserter, but it takes few to sail his ship, and he has no plans to bring any of them along when he finally goes to the crocodile. That path is his and his alone.

Killian puts the stop to good use - and much profit. He quickly finds himself a buyer for a particularly prized beetle of gold that he’d ripped from the neck of a portly merchant. From what Killian bothered to learn, it had been stolen from some tomb - Hamunaptra, if he remembered correctly - and the tomb had disappeared into the sands before it could be ransacked, the few treasures saved worth a king’s ransom, quite literally in one case.

Waiting for his buyer leaves him to his own thoughts for a stretch of time long enough for him to settle within them. Only the sound of dry laughter cutting through the silence brings him out of his reverie, and he has only a moment to assess and react when the darkly cloaked figure ducks into his alleyway, hiding, he presumes, from the approaching man.

She - and that he quickly assesses by the soft shape shrouded in a simple outfit of tan and dark brown leather and fabric - doesn’t notice him for a moment. Her movements are quick when she does, hand on a sword handle no longer hidden beneath her cloak and a direct stare revealing a face that the simplicity of her outfit falls far short of fitting.

She’s a contradictory creature; her furrowed brow and stern lip, her stance, and her trained grip on her sword are in direct opposition to her smooth, clean fingers and pale skin clearly unaccustomed to the direct blaze of the sun that farmers, merchants, and travelers alike shared.

Certainly a conundrum, and he regards her with careful ease, only looking away at the sound of the man passing by - his buyer, Killian now sees. Slipping into the alley was a smart move on her part. A sight like her would’ve ended quickly in crude words from Meade and a sword at his throat for those words, or worse depending on her analysis of his threat to her being.

A sight like her brings up questions, and he decides to stay in a curious desire to seek their answers. Questions of her purpose are easily ascertained, questions of why she’s in pursuit of information valuable, and or dangerous enough to warrant a visit to the Lad not so much.

Questions of simply _her_ grow with her barbed retorts and challenging looks, her decidedly unimpressed appraisal of his form - a decision made carefully to discourage him.

It’s her smile at the imitation turrets that hooks him - if he’s to use that word to describe anything but his useful appendage. She smiles, a humor in her sights that he can’t share in. She _smiles_ like she has something to live for. Though he wraps his next words of warning in sarcasm, behind the facade is a fierce desire to see her unharmed by the perils he walks in with ease.

But she walks in them easily as well, turning her back to him and doesn’t look back.

A conundrum, to be sure.

He takes off, still, to catch up to Meade but when the deal is said and done, his feet take him back to the Lad’s castle. The gold in his pocket buys him his audience (and too-interested eyes he’ll have to contend with later.)

“The lass that you spoke with,” Killian starts.

The Lad might have feigned ignorance for a long while but Killian’s impatient. He caresses his hook, making visible his willingness to use it.

The Lad’s title is apt. He’s too young, too early for his life to be cut so short for so small a reason - no doubt that’s how the Lad rationalizes his nervous reply. “What of her?”

‘Who is she?’ is a question unlikely to be answered, not out of unwillingness on the Lad’s part. She was too assured of her business with him to have been known to the Lad. His fondness for using information to extort more money out of his clients is well-known and simply expected. Killian heard no bag of coins clinking on her person nor did he see the tell of carried treasure, a repeated touch to the form to make sure it’s still safe.

The only treasure she carried into the lad’s place was herself.

Killian sets that thought aside to ask, “What did she want to know?”

“If the whispers were true.”

Killian nods at him to go on, just short of rolling his eyes at the dramatic pause for effect. If he wanted to deal with that, he’d have sailed straight to the Queen, spoiled food stores be damned.

“There have been rumors of darkness in the south, death and decay and disappearances all over. Shadows stealing whole villages and creatures of flame. I assured her that absolutely all of them were true.”

Killian grimaces. The vial he’d dumped in the river was just fog. Either she’d made a deal with another desperate person, or his intelligence had been inaccurate. Or, rather it had been entirely fictitious. Perhaps she thought he’d renege on their deal had he known what he was unleashing. His better half would assert itself and destroy the vial instead.

Destroy his only substantial lead on Rumplestiltskin’s whereabouts?

Killian is not half a man. A battle of good and evil do not wage war in his heart. He’s a man committed to an end.

She need not have been worried.

_She_ -

“She asked me what could be behind this and I replied, ‘Not what, but who?’ That shook her, what with the Dark One defeated years ago, there’s very few people willing to cause such mayhem, and only one who’d want to cause it to Misthaven specifically. The Evil Queen is back for business.”

The Dark One defeated.

His mind latches onto this, searching for the falsity in the Lad’s casual utterance, but can find no trace of it when he looks at him. The Lad’s wary gaze is trained on him. He’s too fearful to lie and smart enough to tell the truth.

Killian pushes away from the table then, leaving the Lad to his fear. He swiftly dispatches those men who’d viewed him as easy loot, his thoughts incomprehensible except for one: The Dark One was defeated, and the Evil Queen knew.

Questions of when, how, who - and _why_ hadn’t he picked up this information before have answers he has no time to seek. He treads only the path he’s marked for himself.

Revenge had taken him far for centuries; this time it would take him to her doorstep.

Killian makes it down to the streets leading towards the less monitored, and thus more sordid area of the docks when awareness raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Though he has time to draw his sword, the ambush is still swifter. It helps them that he inhales the puff of dust mid-swing. The weakness is sudden and devastating. He can barely thrash in the arms of the men that carry him, much less fight them off.

But if they wanted him dead, they’d have ended him there. He’s more useful to them alive, and usefulness he can use to his own advantage. He doesn’t say a word as they deposit him unceremoniously in the back of a cart, removing his hook and chaining his hands and feet - a smart move, but revealing as well. He’s useful, and he’s a threat.

The dice are rolling in his favor.

The wheels of the cart do not, banging him good and proper, but they halt soon enough. He has enough strength returned to his limbs to lift his head and survey the area they’ve set him in. The cabin before him is long abandoned, a decaying enclosure of wood that can barely keep its frame.

It’s more than it appears.

Fairy magic is a sweet taste, a whisper of fluttering wings, and it springs up around him. He curses inwardly. They’ve brought him to a fairy ring. Should he even manage to escape his manacles and the three men with him, three more standing outside, and an incalculable number within the home, he’ll still be stuck. Fairies are more than willing to let you enter their rings, but not fond of letting you out. He doubts they’d hear any of his appeals or care for any of his threats.

He allows them to near drag him into the cabin - his manacled legs not moving fast enough for the two men at his side. They’re guards of some kind. They move like they all do, stiff from the wear of heavy, usually impractical armor. They tense at every sound, readying themselves to lay down their lives for some noble ponce.

Within the cabin stands only one man - so there are seven men to contend with as well as the fairies and the threat of another whiff of paralyzing powder. Two bare wood chairs face each other, and a barrel of water lies on an identically bare table. Otherwise, it’s empty of furniture, decoration and all hints of a life that might’ve been lived here.

His gaze drifts casually to the waiting man. He’s older, gray hairs blended with the original dark brown. The age hasn’t realized in his mind, however. His eyes sharply assess, his mind visibly working. An opponent not easily defeated. Chained as he is a battle would indisputably go in this captain of the guard’s, or something higher in stature and heavier in obligation, favor, true, but Killian has other advantages.

When they drop him down in the seat, a pain he can now feel more acutely, and leave the room to Killian and the Captain, he rasps, “You know if you were that eager for a meet and greet, you could’ve just asked. I’d never dismiss a face like yours.”

He smiles, a hint of teeth, and looks at the Captain underneath his lashes. The Captain simply looks at him, the minor frustrated wrinkle in his brow the only tell of Killian’s successful antagonizing. He doesn’t take the empty seat. The levels are clear. Killian is the prisoner, he the jailer, and any and all demands made will be his own.

“You’re working with the Evil Queen.”

Simple intelligence. Absolute fact. Nary a clue that their alliance ended the moment the Lad spoke.

Killian smiles, “Who’d you have to kidnap for that information? Smee? He’d fold quite quickly. He’s loyal enough to attempt to hold back, but tis a pity how hard that fear hits him. I don’t tolerate cowardice, generally, but I do have a bit of a soft spot where he’s concerned. Ah, the power of friendship.”

The Captain lets his ramble end before he interrogates, “What did she promise you?”

Killian blinks, aware that he’s too slow to hold back his scowl, and having unwillingly given up that information, he willingly gives the rest.

With a temper barely held back, he replies, “She promised me the Dark One’s death, but would you believe my good fortune? He’s already dead. A while back, even.”

Killian pauses, brow wrinkling in consideration.

“I’m sure a straight fellow such as yourself is well aware that false promises aren’t good form.”

He allows a pause between his words, a short reflection on good form - he should’ve long given it up. Let go.

He _can’t_ let go.

“Always try to abide by that even in my less savory dealings, but I suppose your former Queen’s never heard of it. Eye for an eye, she may know. If not, I'll clarify when I bury my hook in her chest.”

The Captain’s response is a look of pity. Killian smiles blankly to that; what is there to lament about his situation besides the restraints delaying him from his task?

“If you were capable of that, I’d help you on your way, Hook. Unfortunately, Regina has made herself invincible on the island she retreated to 28 years ago. You’d be the one to die should you even make the attempt.”

Killian isn’t afraid of death, but dying without seeing her dead as well makes him as determined to live as ever. Revenge, hatred, spite are all powerful motivators.

Killian feels _motivated_.

(Inexplicably, he sees the woman in the alley. He should offer her his gratitude, but he can’t say whether she would accept it.)

“So, what is it that you want, mate?” Killian lets a mere pause pass before he says, “Information, no doubt. You want to know her movements, her plans. Cut her off before she can execute them. Gist of it, am I correct?”

The Captain doesn’t bother to lie. Straightforwardness Killian can admire.

“Yes. This information is crucial to save lives and to protect those she seeks to hurt. We cannot let her reign of terror spread again. We must do everything in our power to prevent this.”

Killian smirks. “Like using the likes of me?”

“We’ve heard of your crimes, _Hook_. We would not approach the likes of you if we had any other option.”

Killian shrugs, “That’s fair, mate.” He narrows his eyes, leaning back casually in the chair as much as he can, chained as he is, and offers the Captain a lazy smile. “However, the likes of _me_ aren’t partial to risking their lives for such a cause. I’m not in the hero business. Valiance, benevolence, charity, rescuing the poor, the ailing, damsels and gentlemen alike - noble notions and deeds for noble men. I’m the worst of men.” Killian gestures at himself with another smirk, his amusement feigned to hide the depths of cold hate seeping into his bones. “If I hadn’t made it quite clear, I do apologize, but there are only two reasons I’d risk my life: love and revenge.”

He shrugs his shoulders, and says, “And I’m all out of love. Revenge, however…” He pauses, gritting his teeth and then plastering on his blank smile. “I’m your man, _mate_.”

The Captain looks at him briefly, whatever he sees making him gesture to the men outside.

“The restraint keys, his hook, and his sword,” he orders.

The guards jump to action with nary a question of their Captain’s orders despite how dangerous they obviously find Killian to be. He cares not for what they think besides the threat it could mean to him. At the present, they have no reason to be wary. He’s been presented with the perfect revenge and who is he to waste it on these men’s lives? A swift death will not sate him; no, he’ll see the Evil Queen’s revenge stolen from her just as his was. He’ll see her feel the same emptiness that he felt at a victory dashed. He will see her break and then he will kill her.

His target may have changed, but inside he hasn’t shifted in the slightest. After all, he’s a man committed to an end, and now it will be hers.

It’s easy to gain her confidence when he returns, the ticks in his jaw and the snap in his words explained away by her “difficulties” in finding Rumplestiltskin and his impatience.

Easier still to claim his long silences as frustration rather than divulge how far away his thoughts are - across space and across time, he hears Milah’s laughter and it hasn’t sounded so sweet in years.

He’d almost forgotten... _no_ , that’s rewriting his history. He had forgotten. Now, with the crocodile as dead and unreachable as Milah, he can no longer replay the moment of her death. Its loss forges space in his mind, where all the happiness and the strife they shared, the _life_ they shared slip free of the cracks he’d pushed them into. He forgot because he knew that if he remembered, he would remember her and acknowledge what he’d set aside, hidden away, and ignored. Self-preservation, it was, and Killian’s a survivor.

He knew that he could not survive this truth: Milah would not have wanted this for him.

Milah who never sought revenge against her husband for the life he’d made her live. Milah who set her hand on Killian’s shoulder and asked him whether he would rather see the world than waste away a kingdom’s ships, only to then waste himself. Milah who smiled herself to tears when he suggested that they make room on his ship for Bae.

Milah had wanted more than an end.

For centuries, that’s all Killian has sought.

He can address this; leaving his crew behind, spending weeks traveling between Regina and Misthaven, gives him much time for reflection. He can, but he’s already set his course and short of a storm tearing through and blowing him away, he will see it through.

He’d admitted to Regina that he’s working for Snow and Charming. Her spies would have already informed her by the time he set foot on her island, and it’s a simple sleight of hand, to give away information her spies wouldn’t be able to ascertain while collecting so much more from her. When she finally decides it’s time for the big reveal, she tells him with a glee that sparks in her eyes: madness burning within.

Madness, a name scrawled in dark ink, over and over again.

“Rumplestiltskin created this curse. The Dark Curse, meant to take those within its casting to a world where only I, the caster, would be happy. I made a promise, years ago, that I would cast it, but I learned that the curse could be broken. The daughter of those insipid fools would break _my_ curse? I’d have 28 years of victory and then I would lose as I have always done. I have lost _everything_!”

She pauses to collect herself. Smiling, she explains, “But I still had this. The patience to ensure that my victory would never be undone. Emma turns 29 in a few months’ time, and that prophecy will be unfulfilled. There will be no Savior. There will be no happily ever after.”

She looks at him after that, a sly glance amidst all her gloating over the demise of her enemies. It’s humor of a different kind, born from the belief in his ignorance - “Except for you and I.”

Killian smiles. “Sounds quite nice.”

“Quite.” She steps into his space, a motion she’s made many times and received with the same disinterest he’d given her first attempt at seduction. “Now would you be so kind as to let them know? They must be given enough time to prepare. I wouldn’t want to catch them unawares.”

“Aye, that would be bad form, your highness.”

She nods, considering this - and something more, entertaining images of her victory. “Yes, bad form.”

He leaves then. The contemplation he sought to avoid sneaks its way in, a wind to shake his sails. Tracking Rumplestiltskin to that cell had been more significant than he thought – _Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma_ : the prophesied Savior whose time is running out.

He wonders if they - her family, her friends, and her kingdom - had ever questioned this curse beyond its consequences. They’d be torn from their lives, trapped within Regina’s happy ending until Emma came to save them; an interruption in their lives, but hers wouldn’t even have begun. She would save them, but who had thought to save her? From Rumplestiltskin’s machinations and Regina’s revenge? From an expectation placed on her before she was even born?

To be destined for a life in which she would spend nearly three decades all alone, a Savior for a kingdom that she wouldn’t even know.

His selfishness insists that it isn’t a life he would have her lead, but she was never meant to save him, so his feeling won’t change anything for her.

Until it does.

They insist that he blend in so he isn’t recognized by the people masquerading in the castle. All of them playing pretend that they don’t recognize the person behind the mask and that everything is alright and will be alright forevermore.

Pity to dispel that dream.

He goes unrecognized, and he waits for the Captain - General of the Guard, in actuality, but Killian is partial to his own title. The _Captain_ does find him, but he’s too caught up in other matters - though what could be more bloody important than the threat they’re all trying to solve boggles Killian’s mind. He insists that Killian tell the fairy instead. He does so with a grimace and a distaste that he does not bother to hide. Tinkerbell might not have truly liked him, but he feels a sense of loyalty to her, for the loss she shared with him. Killian looks at the blue garbed woman, looking like an overgrown mushroom with wings, and can say that Tink hadn’t lost much.

The Fairy doesn’t seem shocked by his report, but she thanks him for his information anyway and flutters off. He questions her indifference, but what does the answer truly matter?

The fastest way out of the castle is through the ballroom so he steels himself to return. In spite of himself, he ends up on the edges of the dance, lingering to watch. Their revelry will only last the night, and his detachment is fading with the thrum of each note. The room is lively and -

A pull of his arm takes his attention. A swan stands before him. Truly so, because beneath the white feathered mask, he sees the soft fullness of her lips and the even softer green of her eyes. As she lies to him - a skilled affectation of women likely to be in this room - he sees as well the fierce vigilance. With every word, she seeks his intentions. He can tell her she and all else are in no danger from him, but he gets swept up in her. Her interrogation soon shifts into a spar of equal opponents and then a game of high stakes. Killian’s captivated, by what he doesn’t realize until her hand touches his cheek. Her touch seeks understanding, not of his intentions but solely of _him_.

He misses Milah, in that moment, but it is only in reflection of the warmth of her hand.

Killian doesn’t want to lose her - his Swan. Not because he loves her for that would be to live in fantasy. No, it’s because she is light and life and everything that he once thought he could have, and what she should have.

He doesn’t want to lose her, so he pulls away and leaves her where she should be, in the life teeming in this room.

In the light.

Yet, he finds her again, in the dark, battling enough men to have overtaken her already were she not so highly skilled and determined an opponent.

What he’d been seeking to bring him here?

Regina had invited him to see her victory and insisted that she would find out then where Rumplestiltskin could be found. He can tell her that one; in a hole in the ground and in the beyond she meant to send Killian to. He’s survived for so long that it should've been instinct to sail in the other direction and escape the curse with the speed of the Jolly.

Seeking death, the likely answer to what’s brought him here. This seems more accurate however, which might still mean death given he jumps into the fray and ends up back to back with Emma, Princess, Savior, a vision passing through his life and breathing it anew.

It might not be love he feels, but it’s something quite like it when she begs him to go with her. As if he could do otherwise.

“As if I have a choice.”

She feels warm around him as they ride from the skirmish to her family and onwards towards the castle, but he knows she’s shivering inside, scared, clinging to hope and clinging to him.

He sighs - for Emma, not himself, but she shifts and asks whether he’s alright. She has no reason to care, and it is nonsense to even ask it. But because she asks, he answers. Her responding silence speaks to him, her touch spelling out her thoughts. _Not now, not now_.

“Killian Jones,” he says.

He thinks that Emma should know and senses that she might want to. He keeps his tone light about the likelihood of his death, but he means every word. She does, too, when she tells him that he - nor anyone else - is going to die.

She sounds like a Savior when she says it. Emma sounds like the woman he first met, the Swan he danced with, and the princess racing to get to her castle.

She sounds like herself.

Emma breathes against his neck, and his breaths sync with hers. It’s a racing beat, heading straight towards a crescendo.

“When you say it like that, I actually believe it.”

They’re too close to their destination for him to say any of the things he should, no time for explanations.

Perhaps after.

Emma follows him within the dark passage, her hand on his back.

After, for sure.

-

Dispatching the black knights patrolling the halls of the empty castle quashes any element of surprise. He can see it written on her face as she knocks the one at her back into the wall: why can’t they die a little quieter?

Killian shakes his head when she starts towards the stairs and the bed chambers above. He pulls her back, and to her questioning, verging on argumentative look, he says, “She’ll be in the throne room.”

“Of course,” Emma drawls sarcastically - her voice shakes through it and she compares the sword she hasn’t sheathed and her empty hand.

He’s seen her use both; whatever choice she makes, magic or blade, it’ll be the right one.

The hall to the throne room is empty of the black knights that have greeted them around every corner. As they approach, the doors to the throne room open in a theatrical welcome. A move worthy of the worthless Rumplestiltskin; evil takes different forms, but carries the same stench.

Killian places a hand at Emma’s chest to stall her. He enters first, but she doesn’t allow this long before she moves to stand at his side.

It’s kind of fitting, that. Feels right when everything else is so wrong.

He hasn’t pursued trying to ingratiate himself with the king and the queen, but it’s definitely them that Regina has frozen to their thrones in all their regality, looking down on an empty court. He imagines she thinks herself preparing them for their inevitable future.

Regina has her back turned when they move towards her, announcing, “They’ve become weak in their old age, even more pathetic than before. I didn’t think that possible, but Snow White and her Prince Charming have always found a way to sink to new lows.”

She sighs heavily, and spins to face them.

When her gaze lands on their pair, Killian catches it, the look he’d committed to memory in their first meeting. Uncertainty. In a choice between accusations and welcomes, she takes the latter.

Killian wishes she chose differently, but it can’t be helped. He’d set himself on this course, after all.

“Hook! I didn’t know you could be _so_ devious.”

He senses Emma’s shift beside him, but he can offer her no assurances. He saunters to Regina’s side, and she brushes her hand over his cheek - he barely stops himself from recoiling at the cold touch as she says, “You’ve brought her to me. This must be the cherry on top of the victory cake. I sent my black knights out to kill her, but this is better. Not only can I watch her parents die, but I can watch the hope die in her eyes.”

She points towards Emma, and he glances over.

“Look! There it is!”

Emma’s mouth sets in a hard line. She doesn’t look at him; deliberate, and Regina sees it, putting it to use, “Oh! You didn’t even know! That’s -”

Regina looks like she could kiss him; for all their sakes, he hopes she doesn’t. There’s no way to know if she’s already set the curse in motion if he attempts to kill her before she reveals herself.

He smirks, shrugging off the compliment. It was easy.

It was easy.

She whirls back to Emma and taunts, “This is perfect. Did you imagine that Hook was to be your knight in pirate garb? The one-handed hero to stand by your side?”

He spares a glance for her parents. Their bodies may be frozen, but their expressions aren’t. If looks could kill, they’d turn theirs away to ensure that his death was as slow and painful as humanly possible. It’s possible they hate him more than Regina.

It can’t be helped.

Regina leaves him alone at the king and queen’s side to approach Emma. She falters, uncertainty in her stance - sword or magic, Killian or Regina, and she’s unprepared to answer.

Regina gets close enough to circle around Emma, her words condescendingly sweet as rotting candy.

“Did you think this would end in happily ever after? The pirate and the princess?” She considers this, and muses aloud, “I suppose it could make for a good story. A story to give people that little feeling that your parents have always considered the most important: hope. ‘Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a powerful thing.’ Your mother said that to me, once, a long time ago. A ridiculous notion for a child to have after killing the man I loved.”

Her face twists in anger, but she draws it back to herself and grins, continuing her taunting circle.

“Did you have hope that people aren’t as terrible as they appear? There’s good in everyone, you just have to find it!”

She snarls, “There was good in me once, and your mother killed it. Rumplestiltskin killed Hook’s and now all we have left is this.”

Regina gathers herself quickly. She summons the fire and starts to toss it at Emma in rapid succession. She’s slow to react and barely stumbles out of the way of the first. Killian doesn’t yet risk moving, and he can see by Regina’s smile that she’s merely toying with Emma anyway. This is just the prelude to the grand finale.

“Do you suppose if I crush your heart like your mother crushed mine that she’ll finally understand what I’ve felt all these years?”

This threat is what finally gets Emma out of the defensive. Regina dropped her guard too easily, and Emma gets too close with her blade for Regina to manage when her magic is occupied with so much else.

It’s the opportunity Killian was waiting for.

Her parents start to move in their seats, Regina’s hold broken in her pursuit of self-preservation.

He turns to them before they rise and asks, “Has she cast the curse already?”

“No,” Snow answers. Charming is quicker to see his anger at Killian’s betrayal quenched and near moves to take Killian. Killian pulls out his sword, and says, “None of that. I’m trying to help. You wouldn’t happen to know where she decided to cast said spell from?”

Charming responds this time, said through grit teeth to clarify that his anger hasn’t passed at all. “She wanted the whole kingdom to see. Emma’s old nursery, it has a balcony overlooking the town and everything beyond.”

“Well, I suppose it's best if you attend to that, aye? Regina isn’t going to be distracted for long, and Emma could use the help.” He grins. “I make for an excellent distraction. Seems she doesn’t take too kindly to betrayal, though you probably know that better than I, milady.”

He isn’t sure what makes them trust him - perhaps the smile he gives them, or how he hears something explode behind him and instantly turns, searching out Emma in the dust and debris of a toppling wall - but when he turns back, they’re both already slipping out the door behind the throne.

Regina appears from the smoke first, which is a sign that Killian has to choke back emotion to.

“Where are they?” she near screeches.

It’s a note higher than tolerable; he winces.

“Seems they don’t enjoy bondage nearly as much as I. Pity that. It can be so much fun.”

Her expression turns in the ugliest kind of gloating. She turns from the rubble, her obvious disregard for the danger of doing so drawing his sword.

“So you _do_ think that you can play the hero” - she laughs, heartily - “This is almost as pathetic as thinking that you can actually get revenge on a dead man.”

He sees movement just over her shoulder, and fixes his gaze on Regina instead. With a shrug, he replies, “That would be pathetic, wouldn’t it? Short of pissing on his grave, that ship’s already sailed. There’s a different wind in my sails now.”

“You’ll never get the chance,” Regina says, raising her hands.

He jerks aside to dive out of the way of her blast, but its trajectory doesn’t take it anywhere close to him, and she’s the one that has to quickly dodge. Emma’s sword breaks through the fog before she does. Her hair’s fallen free of her ponytail and there’s blood at the crown, but otherwise she seems unharmed.

She certainly moves like she is.

As he promised her parents, he did serve as an excellent distraction. That isn’t enough for him, however. He races towards Regina and when she whirls to avoid the thrust of Emma’s sword, he swings his where she seeks to land.

She sees him first and waves her hand, his blade disappearing from his and appearing in hers.

“I’m tired of this,” she says, surprisingly devoid of the emotion she’s always displayed.

With a voice that cold, it certainly doesn’t surprise him when she sinks his own sword into his belly. Regina and Rumplestiltskin are too much alike, and truly killing a man with his own sword is too delicious to pass up. She seems wholly satisfied with the pain that takes him to his knees, gasping when she draws his blade deeper and then rips it out, tossing it aside with disinterest.

“What the hell, lady?”

He’s almost glad Emma doesn’t sound distraught, though he is a little disappointed that he only garners annoyance. A little more emotion couldn’t have hurt.

Regina wheels on her, tossing aside Emma’s sword in the same way she took Killian’s. “Lady?” Emma raises her hands, but whatever she attempts doesn’t see itself to fruition. Regina is close enough to –

Killian blanches.

She and Rumplestiltskin are far too much alike.

“Why doesn’t it surprise me that your parents never taught you the proper way to address your betters?”

He sees Regina reach forward, feels the next motion as acutely as he feels the pain radiating, sharper when he tries to stand, but he’s forced to watch history repeat itself, Regina sinks her hand inside Emma’s chest, and she lets out the gasp of pain of having your heart held by the black-hearted.

“It’s Your Majesty,” Regina says, and pulls.

Pulls, and strains, pulling even harder. It clearly isn’t working – how he has no idea – but she seems set on making it work. Try and try until you succeed.

“What the hell?” Emma repeats, disbelievingly. She nods, registering it with a shrug, and says, “Okay, _your majesty_ , would you oh so kindly fuck off?”

His vision whites and he thinks perhaps he’s passed on, but then the white turns to rainbows falling down around him, and he definitely has passed on because this is bloody ridiculous.

But Regina flies past him, and he hears it as she hits the wall. He can’t turn to see whether she’s able to mete out more damage or even still alive, but Emma rushes over to his side so her threat must be gone.

She kneels down beside him, and he looks up. The blood at her forehead’s slowed to a trickle, so it isn’t serious. He breathes a sigh of relief which doesn’t help his predicament.

“Bloody hell. I didn’t imagine getting impaled with my own sword would be this painful. Here I thought my sword tricks were quite enjoyable.”

Emma shakes her head, her lips curling up in a disbelieving smile.

“You’re bleeding out on the floor and you choose a terrible innuendo? And I mean, terrible because that wasn’t well crafted at all. You can do better,” she says.

He nods slightly. “You’re right. Give me a moment to think, my head feels a trite light.”

“For an old lady, she sure moved fast,” Emma comments. She brushes her hand across his cheek before seeking lower.

“If you wanted to get a taste of the package, Swan, you needn’t have gone to these lengths.”

“I give you points for trying,” Emma replies.

He tries to think of a better one as her hand finds the wound. She’s realizes its severity with a gasp, her breaths short and shallow.

Killian finds it quite endearing that her next words are a chastisement rather than those of comfort.

“Are you trying to make me a liar? Because that’s not gentlemanly,” she says.

He wrinkles his brow in more confusion than pain. “A liar?” he prompts.

“You’re not going to die,” she says simply.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She presses her fingers against the wound and gods, he never imagined her touch would ever hurt so much. Not that she wasn’t capable, but he did imagine it would be in more enjoyable situations.

It feels easier now that he’s dying to let his imagination run wild.

Emma starts to mutter, quietly, and he looks at her again. Her brow knits in concentration, a wrinkle that he finds utterly adorable.

He strains to understand her words, feeling himself drift a bit, and he’d like it best if he drifted to the sound of her voice.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing with this. Maybe it isn’t best to confess this right now, but I don’t even know what I’m doing most of the time. Sometimes I actually do and those are the worst times, because I can just see myself doing the wrong thing. But I kind of -”

Emma looks at his face, a softness to her expression that warms him all over. Perhaps he was growing cold, but now Killian feels a little hot - not just in the face because she reaches over and strokes his cheek again. She glances away and bounces happily on her knees. He finds he can do the same, actually, his muscles stiff but the motions don’t hurt. It’s strange to feel your insides knitting themselves back together, but it’s awesome - he could heap praises on Emma, at her magnificence, but he finds himself tongue-tied by her tongue darting out to sweep over her bottom lip.

She continues her ramble as if she never broke it off, and says, “I kind of know what I want to do now, and it sort of doesn’t feel wrong.”

“Which probably means it is,” he asserts with a light chuckle.

She returns his smile, hers so relieved, and agrees, “Which _definitely_ means that it is.”

“Your ensemble is ruined,” she comments as she pulls herself to her feet and offers a hand for him to do the same.

He shrugs and allows her to help him to his feet. “Could do with a new one.”

She hums her agreement, a little too strongly. Killian takes offense, but only enough to sniff unhappily before his smile takes over once more.

He catches Emma’s again, just once before it’s snatched away.

She lets loose a cry of delight and runs past him. He has no wish to intrude on this celebration that he has no part of. Killian gives one look to her near tackle of her parents before he tests the stickiness of his clothes and slips away; he’s in desperate need of a bath and a change of wear.

-

“Oh, sweetie, we were so worried,” her mother says, voice wobbling on the verge of tears.

Her dad’s tears are actually already at the corners of his eyes, so Emma supposes she’s winning in this chaining of emotional outbursts.

“We knew you’d do this, though.”

Emma stiffens, agreeing, “Because I was destined.”

“No, because we have faith in you. Always.”

Emma looks away from the emotion in their expressions, and to chain her own, she says, “Well, you have to after this.”

Her father laughs and says, “I don’t know what that witch was talking about, but I’ve still got it.”

Snow scoffs, “ _Sure_. Who was the one who disposed of those knights?”

He gives her a dopey smile, and she returns his in silent conversation. For the first time, Emma can hear the words spoken, as clear as day.

She finally understands.

“Took long enough,” she mutters to herself.

Her cheeks redden slightly when her mother asks, “What was that?”

Emma looks for a distraction - and realizes that _this_ is the distraction. All around her is chaos that needs addressing. Starting with the passed out or dead queen (hopefully dead because Emma sees no other option in stopping her from ever doing this again, and she doesn’t have the emotional or physical energy to do it again.)

“We should probably do something about her?” She nods at the queen. “And the castle?” Debris falls from the destroyed wall to mark her point. “And the people?”

She’s apt with that one, too, when loud voices carry through the castle, racing towards them, and the familiar one at the lead appears first, axe in hand and too eagerly swinging it.

“We handled it, Grumpy,” Emma says carefully.

Cooling his hot head is easier said than done, however, and it takes Red’s annoyed growl to illicit a grumbled, “We should start clearing this away.”

Emma shakes her head in long-suffering affection. She’s all too affected, she realizes as everyone gets themselves to work, more people filling the castle to volunteer their services, cry their gratitude, and slowly reignite that hope that everyone’s so fond of.

The night’s over, and a brighter day arises.

She walks towards her parents, to ask them whether they’re alright because in her relief at their survival, she never got the chance. Emma near slips, and steadies herself uneasily. Beneath her feet is a puddle of blood and she blanches, looking around.

Hook’s nowhere to be found, and Emma’s not sure what it is, but it stings. She touches her head, to the glancing wound caused by her own blade when she dove to avoid the falling wall. Maybe she has a concussion or something.

She swallows around the lump in her throat.

She offers her services in moving debris, but she’s so drained that her attempt at magically lifting a stone ends in Doc dragging Dopey away from its crushing fall.

“Maybe I should help...somewhere else?” Emma suggests.

“Please?” Grumpy says in his best attempt at not telling her to get lost.

Feeling the same as him, and just so tired that she can’t even collapse, she takes her tired body out of the castle. She breathes in, the air clearer than when she left it. The smoke is gone, and she can taste the incoming morning.

To her complete lack of surprise, there are guards already posted at the gates to send her questioning looks.

She waves them off, “I’ll meet you back here this time. Just going for a quick walk.”

It’s truly an overstatement because she couldn’t do ‘quick’ if she tried. It’s morning when she reaches Queenstown, and though some smoke is still curling in the air from recently doused fires, she’s never been so happy to see the sunrise.

Emma’s at the docks before she realizes it. It’s a little foggy there, but she can still see out at the blues and greens. The sea is calm and doesn’t look to be changing anytime soon. The water ripples here and there, but those ripples just stretch out the reflection of the sun.

She seats herself down, legs dangling over the edge so she can see them kicking lazily over the water. Wearily, she closes her eyes, and she is only _very, very_ much surprised when she’s joined by Hook. She glances at him; he’s shirked the coat and changed his shirt to some open white billowy thing that suits his flamboyance too well.

“The water’s always seemed to calm me,” Emma remarks.

It’s a question he hasn’t asked, but she saw it in his eyes, and he deserved more than silent acknowledgement of it.

“Aye?”

She turns to him fully, something in his voice demanding her undivided attention. She studies the creases in Hook’s expression, his forehead wrinkled in unspoken words. Another question that he deserves an answer to. There’s danger in answering, truly, but Emma feels a bit dangerous right now.

After all, she just slayed the Evil Queen. She’s a Savior, a princess, whoever else that only she can be: Emma, and Emma does not back down from danger.

Sometimes, in fact, she embraces it.

She imagined that kissing Hook would involve dragging him by the lapels of his coat to close the distance between them, but he’s so bare right now that she can only shift forward. She sinks her fingers in his hair and tugs until she finally realizes just how soft and full his lips are, and - he isn’t moving. She doesn’t think the shock is _that_ overwhelming, or maybe she is as awkward as she feared and -

Hook parts her lips, seeking and urging and committing himself to this moment. His hand plays through her hair, at times caressing, but more often tugging so her head falls just a little back and his lips just miss her mouth, instead finding the dimple in her chin or the warm skin of her cheek. She moans when he does so, relieved and relaxed and near boneless even though he hasn’t touched her, has barely even pulled her towards him.

Emma feels alive and she breathes it into him, taking back just a little control to stroke her tongue over his, find just what he tastes like. She hasn’t put a name to it before she loses the control she gained. Her hand slips from its death grip on his nape, and she loses her balance.

The only thing that stops her from taking an unplanned swim is Hook’s quick reflexive hooking of her belt and his hand thrust against her belly, in tandem knocking her breath out.

His is perfectly fine because he laughs heartily. He waits until she’s settled again and able to truly glare at him before he says, “Let’s keep our near death experiences to only once a day, aye?”

His eyes crinkle quite nicely when he’s truly smiling.

“Once a day seems a bit much,” she says, tilting her head in judgement.

He waggles his brows in humor. “For a princess, of course. For those in my line of work? Once a day is a bloody miracle.”

“I’ll ignore your assertion that what you do counts as work, but come on, you expect me to believe you come close to dying every day?” Teasing, she says, “What, does your rum come laced with poison? Someone leave their mop out after swabbing the deck? A particularly strong wind drags your heavy coat, with you in it, down into the sea?”

“You’d do better to stroke my ego, love. This is not endearing in the slightest.” Sulking even more, he adds petulantly, “Also, there’s blood in your hair.”

“Stooping low aren’t we, Killian?”

She tests the name. It seems to suit this lightness better than Hook, and the almost bashful expression that follows her change in address even better.

He tilts his head to her eye level, and does this looking at her like she’s delectable thing that makes her stomach flip, and Killian’s hand drifts from where it’s been resting comfortably on her stomach until he says, “Well you are a tad short,” and boops her nose.

She damn near giggles, which is exactly the sign _they_ need to start shouting, a ruckus she barely understands but gets the gist of. Emma stands, stretching out muscles she thinks won’t need stretching for another week.

“This is fine,” she tells the squad with a quelling spread of her hands. “I just lost track of time.”

Killian doesn’t move behind her, and she almost keeps going, disappointment overwhelming sense. But sense makes a surprising comeback, and she bites her lip, scrunching. Emma knows the guards are watching her, already confused and probably now holding back laughter.

Turning, she says, “Come on now, Captain.”

It’s perhaps a bit too teasing for present company given said company reports to Graham who reports to her parents who then do that parental thing.

But it shocks him, plain as day on his face, which is well worth the parental thing.

The squad gives him wary looks as he approaches, a few of them like they’ve crossed paths with Killian before and acquired a particular distaste for him. She’ll ask him about that, after.

He slips into step with her, leaning over to whisper loudly, “I don’t believe they like me very much.”

Before he can go on about him being the most likeable being around, Emma leans in, even closer and when they turn into each other, their noses nudge in the softest of kisses.

“I like you,” she says simply.

It’s enough to have Killian draw back, reaching up to scratch behind his ear in that bashful expression that is far too open - doors welcoming her in.

“Well, love, that’s a start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I started and finished this under a week but miracles happen.mp3. I hope you've enjoyed this little fic as I am very happy to have been able to share it with you.


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